


A Little More Than His Share Of The Blame

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Can be read as OT3, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos takes his responsibilities seriously, but it doesn't go unappreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little More Than His Share Of The Blame

**Author's Note:**

> Another random quick fic, this time inspired by a one-on-one meeting I had to endure with my boss. Apparently, I do too much to help those in my charge.
> 
> "A good leader takes a little more than his share of the blame, a little less than his share of the credit." - Arnold H. Glasow.

“Where’s Athos? Haven’t seen him all day.”

“Nor have I.” Aramis frowned. It was clear from the note of concern in Porthos’s tone that he, too, had been wondering about Athos’s whereabouts ever since noting his absence from the morning parade. Treville had made no mention of it, assigning Aramis and Porthos their duties and leaving them no time to either enquire or go in search of their third before their presence was required by a small party of the king’s friends.

The subsequent dull hours spent watching over the tiresome noblemen as they traded compliments and shot thrown targets from the sky had provided far too much opportunity to contemplate the myriad possible reasons for Athos’s failure to join them.

Aramis absolutely refused to entertain the thought that something terrible had happened to him, but the niggling worry in the pit of his stomach refused to be banished.

“If he’s found a way to avoid this torture, I’ll—”

“Athos is otherwise engaged.” Porthos’s grumble was cut short by the sudden appearance of Captain Treville as he stealthily strolled into earshot of his Musketeers, taking them by surprise, distracted as they were with their thoughts. Aramis and Porthos quickly straightened to attention as Treville stopped before them and fixed each man in turn with a stern glare. “And I am certain he would appreciate it if you two remained focused on your present duties.”

“Yes, sir!” Two voices obediently chorused their acquiescence.

Treville gave a terse nod, turned on his heel, and strode off purposefully. When Aramis judged it safe to relax, he glanced at Porthos; the expression of confused relief with which Porthos watched Treville’s retreating form was doubtless mirrored on his own features. They may not have been fully enlightened, but it thankfully seemed that Athos was engaged upon some other task, not suffering with some unknown malady or caught up in trouble.

The mystery may not yet be solved, but the knot of anxiety uncoiled a little.

* * * *

Athos pushed open the door to his lodgings, only to stop on the threshold as he saw the room was already occupied. He was greeted by a stunned silence as Aramis and Porthos took in the state of him, words of salutation and curious questions dying on their lips as they gaped at their friend.

Athos’s hair, damp with sweat, lay plastered to his brow, his face streaked with dirty smudges. His doublet hung open, the shirt beneath stained with grimy patches of various shades of grey; his boots and the knees of his breeches were caked with mud, his fingers darkened in much the same fashion, and one hand was bound around the palm with a blood-smeared strip of cloth that had likely been torn from the hem of his ruined shirt.

Offering no explanation, Athos gazed at his comrades with an intense yet unreadable expression that they knew from experience concealed an emotion that lay somewhere between mild irritation and fury. A moment later, Athos dismissed them in favour of pouring himself a generous cup of wine and slumping heavily onto the bed, where he drank deeply and continued to ignore his shocked visitors.

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Aramis broke the bemused silence. “What on Earth have you been doing?”

Athos’s eyes lifted to gaze sullenly at Aramis. “Undertaking a vast number of chores.”

Nonplussed, Aramis stared at him in incomprehension, unable to guess what chores Athos could possibly mean, although he had a suspicion, from the evidence of a faint aroma of manure, that the stables had been involved somehow.

Beside him, a frown creased Porthos’s brow. “What? Why?” He was clearly just as puzzled.

Athos’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Did you think your little…disagreement last night would go unnoticed?”

Aramis exchanged a guilty look with Porthos as realisation dawned. “Oh.”

“Word reached Treville that the cardinal was not best pleased with the state you left several of his Red Guards in.”

Porthos immediately leapt to their defence. “But they started it – ow!” His indignant retort was interrupted by a sharp jab to the ribs from Aramis’s elbow.

“Nevertheless, he couldn’t be seen to let it go unpunished.”

Aramis shook his head; that fact was true enough, but what he couldn’t fathom was why Athos appeared to be the one who had borne the brunt of this punishment. “But you weren’t involved!”

“You are under my command, are you not?” Athos sounded stolidly resigned. “And as such, I remain responsible for your actions.”

“You weren’t even there!” Porthos added his own protest on his leader’s behalf.

“You shouldn’t have to answer for our misdeeds.” Aramis now knew that Athos had taken it upon himself to shoulder the full blame for the fight that had broken out the previous night – one that had led to a number of the Red Guard requiring medical attention – and was both warmed and struck with remorse by his friend’s actions. “The penalty should be ours to suffer. We’ll speak to Treville in the morning.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“We will,” Porthos insisted. “It’s only right.”

Athos shook his head with firm vehemence. “The matter is settled.” He paused to take another drink from his cup before continuing. “Besides, while I do not know all the details of the quarrel, I am certain that _had_ I been present…I would not have stopped you.”

A broad grin flashed across Porthos’s face, and he immediately tried to school his delighted expression into something more contrite. He didn’t quite manage it.

Aramis sat down beside Athos. “Let me take a look at that hand.”

“It’s nothing,” Athos said dismissively. “A scratch.”

“All the same, it needs to be cleaned. Unless you want it to become infected.”

Seeing the sense in Aramis’s statement, Athos obediently gave him his hand. Aramis unwound the dirty makeshift bandage and frowned at the grimy mixture of blood and dirt encrusting Athos’s palm. Quickly fetching a bowl of water and a clean rag, he proceeded to clean the gash and redress the wound.

As he worked, Porthos crouched before Athos and tugged at his ankle until he raised his foot from the floor so Porthos could remove his muddy boot. Athos was about to protest that he was quite capable of undressing himself, but the determined look on Porthos’s face made him hold his tongue and accept the gesture.

Depositing the boots by the door, Porthos collected the wine bottle upon his return and replenished Athos’s cup before taking a seat at his other side. Athos inclined his head in a nod of thanks and took another appreciative sip.

Satisfied with his work, Aramis raised Athos’s freshly bandaged hand to his lips and pressed a reverent kiss to the knuckles. Athos looked at him with astonished wonder.

“You are a good man, Athos, and I know I also speak for Porthos when I say we consider ourselves incredibly fortunate to call you our friend, and you a saint for suffering fools such as us.” Aramis held Athos’s gaze with earnest sincerity as he spoke.

“I am far from being a saint, Aramis.” A flash of grim conviction flickered across Athos face, and he glanced away briefly to hide the shadows that danced behind his eyes, but a gentle squeeze to his fingers instantly reclaimed his attention. He lifted his gaze back to Aramis. “It is I who considers myself the fortunate one.”

“Well,” grunted Porthos, in complete agreement with Aramis if unable to express it quite so eloquently, “next time let us share the consequences, eh?”

Athos turned and leveled a cool, scrutinizing glower at Porthos, one eyebrow arched. “Next time?”

“Uh, I mean…” Porthos stammered, his gaze darting away sheepishly, but when he risked looking back at Athos, he found an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and, behind him, Aramis was making a woeful attempt at stifling a laugh.

Porthos scowled at them both. “You bastard,” he growled, but the curse held nothing but fond affection, his eyes nothing but glee. Aramis let his laughter burst free and Porthos joined in, throwing an arm around Athos’s shoulders and pulling him into a strong, one-armed embrace.

Between them, Athos continued to smile, content in the knowledge that, for all their combined faults, there was no hardship he wouldn’t gladly suffer for these men.


End file.
